


Spots

by StarshipDancer



Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid
Genre: Angst, Basically Voldemort's sappy af, But only a little, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Special appearance by Voldemort's truest nemesis, lowkey inspired by doom days by bastille
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 09:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20356357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: Quirrell asks some questions, and Voldemort reflects on the choices that brought him to this moment.





	Spots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adrianveidt (zephyr_lynx)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyr_lynx/gifts).

> professor-quirrell complimented me too much, so I wrote this fic in retaliation. I don't know what I thought this would accomplish, but here it is! 
> 
> Also, I've been up for 24 hours at this point, so please forgive any typos. Enjoy! <3

“So was it everything you wanted?”

Voldemort, incredibly close to the window, barely heard Quirrell. A bottle of Windex in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other, he was _determined_ to remove these spots today. He was the (former) Dark Lord, for Wizard God’s sake! He should be able to handle some window spots!

But it seemed like no matter how many times he scrubbed the window until it squeaked with cleanliness, he always missed _one blasted spot_. Well. Not today. _Today_, their windows would be _spotless_ so that the sun hit Quirrell’s favorite reading chair _perfectly_.

Not that he was doing this all for Quirrell or anything. Definitely not. He wasn’t _soft_. He was the (former) Dark Lord! He liked things clean out of principle. The fact that Quirrell’s chair happened to be here was just… coincidence. Yes.

Voldemort would _scare_ these spots away if he had to. He’d wait until Quirrell left, though. Last time Quirrell caught him threatening inanimate objects that just _refused _to be cleaned, he teased Voldemort for _months_.

“Voldemort?” Quirrell said again.

“Hm?” Blinking out of his stupor, Voldemort turned away from the window to find Quirrell in aforementioned favorite chair. A book was in his lap, and Voldemort recognized the black cover and gold lettering as _Good Omens_, something Voldemort had picked out for him off the internet.

Quirrell slid a bookmark into the novel absently, his warm brown eyes fixated on Voldemort. “When you—when you were taking over the world. Was it everything you wanted?”

“Uh.” Voldemort turned back to the window, unsure what to make of the question. They both tried not to bring up what had happened. Quirrell still stuttered at the sound of Azkaban, and though Voldemort would sooner die than admit it, he still had nightmares.

Nightmares which centered around those days when they were separated. He’d barely had time to enjoy dancing with Quirrell in his arms before Bellatrix had brought back the cruel reality of the situation.

Quirrell was supposed to go to prison. Voldemort was supposed to rule the world. He’d only used Quirrell to get what he wanted. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

He wasn’t supposed to have _feelings_. But he _had_.

Everything had been going the way Voldemort thought he wanted. He had control of the Ministry. Potter was just within his grasp. He could bring the whole world to ruins, watch it catch fire and burn at his feet—

_And all he would have thought about was Quirrell_.

Voldemort shrugged. He sprayed the window with cleaner and began scrubbing at the glass. He wasn’t sure if he could face Quirrell at the moment, afraid of what expression his face might betray. “What brought this on?”

“Just curious.” Voldemort heart Quirrell open his book again. A page turned. Silence. Then—

“I just can’t help but wonder if you’re happy things turned out the way they did,” said Quirrell suddenly, shutting his book with more force than usual.

“What!? Why would you even ask that!?” Now Voldemort did turn around, his heart clenching at the way Quirrell’s gaze bore into him. Tearing him down, picking him apart piece by piece as he sought the answer he wanted. Voldemort swallowed, throat tight, and he busied himself with setting down the cleaning supplies.

By the time Voldemort could bring himself to look at Quirrell again, he noticed his boyfriend’s gaze had softened, perhaps realizing that he was staring Voldemort down like a very unfortunate weed. He offered a small smile and a shrug, a little helpless.

“Sometimes I just—I just think about all of those plans you made,” he said, voice quiet and a little nervous now. “You had everything planned out, every little detail to return you to power, and now you’re here. Going at that window like it’s—it’s your worst enemy! I’m—are you _happy_, Voldemort?”

Voldemort glanced at the window in question. He could still see that damn spot, tarnishing the otherwise pristine surface, and had to stomach the fierce anger rising up in him.

Maybe the window _was_ his worst enemy now. Maybe that’s what domestic life had done to him. Before he met Quirrell, Voldemort would’ve _gagged _at the thought of such a simple life. He’d wanted to bring destruction, cast the entire world into a series of doom days that would never end. He’d wanted to rule. He’d wanted to _hate_.

But all of that seemed so far away now. Voldemort could remember the day he cast all of those thoughts aside, let them float away in the cold wind as he stood before Quirrell, scrawny and pale in his prison uniform, and asked to come home.

Voldemort didn’t know what to say. He crossed his arms and looked to his feet, as if expecting to find the answer on the floor. What he did find was _crumbs_. What had he told Quirrell about eating in here…?

“You wanted the world,” Quirrell reminded, drawing him back to the present.

Voldemort’s head snapped up, his reply immediate and instinctive. “And I got it.”

Now was Quirrell’s turn to be speechless. He gaped at Voldemort, stumbling over a few words until he decided he just couldn’t speak yet. Voldemort walked over to him, reaching a hand out to card through Quirrell’s hair.

“Squirrel, don’t you get it? I made my decision. I don’t have anything to regret.” He knelt down in front of Quirrell, pretending he hadn’t noticed the crumbs, and took Quirrell’s book. He set it aside so he could grasp both of Quirrell’s hands in his. “When we were… separated, Bellatrix kept telling me that there were pieces of me missing, and she was mostly right. Just one piece. Just you. I don’t think I could’ve ruled the world without you by my side.”

Quirrell sniffled, smiling even as his eyes grew misty. “Sap.”

“It’s your fault. You keep reading me those Jane Austin novels.” Voldemort made a face just to get a laugh out of Quirrell and grinned when it worked. He leaned up to press a tender kiss to Quirrell’s mouth, unable to imagine himself anywhere but here.

“Okay?” Voldemort asked, his eyebrows raised.

Quirrell smiled. “Okay.”

“Wonderful.” With another quick peck, Voldemort stood back up and dusted off his knees. He returned to the window with renewed vigor, not about to be worn down by a bloody _spot_.

Behind him, Voldemort heart Quirrell reopen his novel and resume reading. He’d have to ask Quirrell to read this one to him sometime. He had a feeling he’d like it.

“Oh, and Voldemort? I don’t know how to tell you this, but…”

Oh, shit, what now? Voldemort turned around, prepared for anything but Quirrell’s amused grin.

“That spot you’ve been cleaning for the past three days? Pretty sure it’s on the _outside_.”


End file.
